finally, a funny (well, i hope so anyways, guess i will find out from your comments) post about my kids...
"what are you doing?!?"
my oldest stands in the middle of the living room, watching wile e. coyote and roadrunner in their eternal struggle (a quintessential piece of both my wife's and my childhood onto which we have recently turned our children and to which they have taken a great liking, much to our enjoyment) with his recently-shorn head shining in the light leaking through the blinds (there was an "accident" between a pair of scissors and his bangs at school, the result of which was daddy with a set of clippers on the lowest setting on the front porch with the wind blowing away the tufts of liberated locks and daddy using a passel of his favorite words with his voice set to "stern") and fully a half of his arm crammed down the back of his pants.
"what are you doing?!?"
"my butt itches."
i hear my wife choke off a laugh behind me and turn to mean-mug her for one second whilst also trying to maintain my military bearing.
"does it itch on the outside? or between the cheeks?" she asks, as i marvel at the things we find ourselves saying as parents without a trace of irony that we would never have in our wildest dreams guessed we would ever say before having progeny.
he stands, round face blank and brown eyes wide, his shoulder nearly dislocated and (i can only figure in some sick and twisted inner room of my ridiculous imagination) his hand working overtime, and replies: "between."
more spits and sputters from behind me as i say, "well it just means you didn't do a very good job of wiping. come with me. and get your hand out of your pants!"
we march up the stairs, and he heads off to his bathroom, assuming of course that that is where i am going to aid him in fixing his situation.
"no, over here."
a look of wonderment crosses his face. it is rare that the boys get to enter our inner sanctum of a master bedroom, but he is about to cross the threshold of the holiest of holies, the master bath.
"now," i say, "just because you now know where these are, and because i am giving you one now does NOT mean you are allowed to sneak in here and use them willy-nilly. got it?"
"got it."
and i break out our special stash of medicated wipes.
he is still standing taking in what must appear, to him at least, to be the lap of luxury when it comes to toilettes: brightly-colored bottles containing a plethera of soaps, the nice towels, make-up, beard trimmers that look sleek and shiny like a muscle car, shelves lined with glass jars containing q-tips and make-up removal pads.
"drop your pants and sit on the potty."
it seems ludicrous to refer to such a porcelain shiny work of art as our commode with such a juvenile word as "potty" so it takes him a moment to comply.
"now, use this to wipe your bum."
he does, and then holds it out and looks at is as if he is shocked at what he has found.
"keep going, do a good job."
"k."
again, he seems surprised, as if he has discovered a small beetle in what would otherwise be an antiseptic and pristine hospital room.
"think you got it?"
"yes, i think so."
"toss that in there and wash your hands."
dreamy-eyed, he runs the tap and puts his hands under it, and almost giggles as i dispense some liquid soap that smells of lavender from an old-time apothecary looking bottle into his damp palm.
"what's that?" he asks in amazement.
"soap."
"what kinda soap?"
"just pretty-smelling hand soap."
"oh, it is pretty."
"dry off your hands."
he giggles some more as he says, starry-eyed, "look at all the bubbles."
and indeed, there is a small pile of soap bubbles slowly popping and working its way down the drain.
"dry off."
who knows what stories he will relate to his younger sibling of what the bathrooms in heaven are like. who can guess what magical and fantastical things he can't even begin to comprehend currently dance around in his head. what avarice, what luxury, what dreams made flesh.
and all because a small bit of shit didn't get properly wiped up.
darth sardonic
ps, happy veteran's day to everyone. thanks to those that serve, regardless of what country you may have served.
my oldest stands in the middle of the living room, watching wile e. coyote and roadrunner in their eternal struggle (a quintessential piece of both my wife's and my childhood onto which we have recently turned our children and to which they have taken a great liking, much to our enjoyment) with his recently-shorn head shining in the light leaking through the blinds (there was an "accident" between a pair of scissors and his bangs at school, the result of which was daddy with a set of clippers on the lowest setting on the front porch with the wind blowing away the tufts of liberated locks and daddy using a passel of his favorite words with his voice set to "stern") and fully a half of his arm crammed down the back of his pants.
"what are you doing?!?"
"my butt itches."
i hear my wife choke off a laugh behind me and turn to mean-mug her for one second whilst also trying to maintain my military bearing.
"does it itch on the outside? or between the cheeks?" she asks, as i marvel at the things we find ourselves saying as parents without a trace of irony that we would never have in our wildest dreams guessed we would ever say before having progeny.
he stands, round face blank and brown eyes wide, his shoulder nearly dislocated and (i can only figure in some sick and twisted inner room of my ridiculous imagination) his hand working overtime, and replies: "between."
more spits and sputters from behind me as i say, "well it just means you didn't do a very good job of wiping. come with me. and get your hand out of your pants!"
we march up the stairs, and he heads off to his bathroom, assuming of course that that is where i am going to aid him in fixing his situation.
"no, over here."
a look of wonderment crosses his face. it is rare that the boys get to enter our inner sanctum of a master bedroom, but he is about to cross the threshold of the holiest of holies, the master bath.
"now," i say, "just because you now know where these are, and because i am giving you one now does NOT mean you are allowed to sneak in here and use them willy-nilly. got it?"
"got it."
and i break out our special stash of medicated wipes.
he is still standing taking in what must appear, to him at least, to be the lap of luxury when it comes to toilettes: brightly-colored bottles containing a plethera of soaps, the nice towels, make-up, beard trimmers that look sleek and shiny like a muscle car, shelves lined with glass jars containing q-tips and make-up removal pads.
"drop your pants and sit on the potty."
it seems ludicrous to refer to such a porcelain shiny work of art as our commode with such a juvenile word as "potty" so it takes him a moment to comply.
"now, use this to wipe your bum."
he does, and then holds it out and looks at is as if he is shocked at what he has found.
"keep going, do a good job."
"k."
again, he seems surprised, as if he has discovered a small beetle in what would otherwise be an antiseptic and pristine hospital room.
"think you got it?"
"yes, i think so."
"toss that in there and wash your hands."
dreamy-eyed, he runs the tap and puts his hands under it, and almost giggles as i dispense some liquid soap that smells of lavender from an old-time apothecary looking bottle into his damp palm.
"what's that?" he asks in amazement.
"soap."
"what kinda soap?"
"just pretty-smelling hand soap."
"oh, it is pretty."
"dry off your hands."
he giggles some more as he says, starry-eyed, "look at all the bubbles."
and indeed, there is a small pile of soap bubbles slowly popping and working its way down the drain.
"dry off."
who knows what stories he will relate to his younger sibling of what the bathrooms in heaven are like. who can guess what magical and fantastical things he can't even begin to comprehend currently dance around in his head. what avarice, what luxury, what dreams made flesh.
and all because a small bit of shit didn't get properly wiped up.
darth sardonic
ps, happy veteran's day to everyone. thanks to those that serve, regardless of what country you may have served.
Labels: family fun, my cool kids, my kids are crazy
posted by darth sardonic at 5:11 AM
2 Comments:
I never get tired of poo stories.
AND! That's too funny and TRUE about the parents room being so mystical and forbidden and cooool all at the same time. I haven't thought about that particular sense of awe-emotion in YEARS! :P I wonder if it'll be the same for my kid? I hope so. :)
gringa i find that most of the stuff i went through reoccurs through my kids lol. i'm sure it will be the same with yours
Post a Comment
<< Home